Here, from Somewhere

By Paul Hull

Where did they all come from? The people who stopped in Rutland, Montana, in the nineteenth century came from....somewhere else. Some of them stopped and built the town that is, today, a prosperous community. Kate Tudor escaped from her family’s dull store in New York; Laurence Macauley came from England, on an unknown mission; and there were men and women from other states, other countries, other disappointing lives, all looking for a better future in the undeveloped western part of the country. Some were professionals – attorney, engineer, blacksmith, saloon owner, banker, rancher, dance hall girl, livery man – and some just knew that there had to be something better than what they had left. This is the story of struggles, of good and bad, of the beginnings that made here a place to enjoy. It’s a story of determination, friendship, courage, and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Hull
• Release date: Jul 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310492075

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Macauley paused on the ridge, knowing he would make a perfect target for anybody watching. The sky to the northwest was darkening, somehow seeming blacker as twilight approached and the clouds puffed up their pride of rain. Dazzling streaks of lightning lit the darkness, with the gaps between the silent light and noise of thunder lessening every minute. His horse moved testily, questioning why they had paused when the storm's fury would lash them so soon.

He could see the pale lights of a settlement down by the river, only three miles away but not his destination for that night. It was difficult to judge its size but it looked big enough for a bank and even a hotel, certainly a store with useful supplies. A hot bath, a change of clothes, a kitchen-cooked meal, people from whom to hear the latest rumors and even jokes. Somebody new to talk to. They were all attractive propositions for such an evening but he did not know the little town below and he did not know (as he never knew) if his quarry was waiting for him there.

His horse took him carefully down the steep slope from the ridge, picking its way with almost mincing steps like one of those white horses he had seen in Spain, trained to perform precision movements but not too appealing to a soldier or a cowboy. When they found a stand of cottonwoods, like a friendly kraal in the veldt, Macauley dismounted.

The rain finally reached them; it was hard and almost horizontal in its wild efforts to escape the black clouds that had held it. The raindrops - such a gentle-sounding name! - were like sharp stones or the grapeshot from a cannon. They were only a degree or two away from hail. The leaves did not offer full cover yet, not at the beginning of May, but Macauley leaned against the sheltered side of a broad tree trunk and it was not too uncomfortable. Rain trickling down his neck and back was a feeling to which he had never become accustomed; it was almost like an inquisitive insect performing the same dance steps.

He'd have to find somewhere to spend the night if there was going to be storm and shower till morning. He had not noticed any caves but there would surely be one or two in the mustard colored rocks. Even an erosion of a few feet on the side away from the driving wind and rain would be adequate to shelter him and his patient horse. A deeper cave might be the home of a sensible but unfriendly animal. In the dry, flat plains of this eastern Montana territory, human food for survival would not be unthinkable to a hungry bear or wolf. He had heard wolves the previous day, stronger in their nocturnal challenges than the coyotes. He smiled at the thought that there was always somebody preying on somebody else, always an unknown predator waiting to snap your neck. Without realizing it, Macauley rubbed the scar on his own neck. It didn't hurt, not now.

He found a sheltered nook in the rocks and made a fire. His horse stood more contentedly in the protection of the same concave erosion. In his travels across the country from Boston, Macauley had wondered at the natural forces that fashioned the shapes of hillsides, and twisted trees to shapes that, if one of those French artists recently called Impressionists had painted them in such a style, would have roused cries in some salons and country houses of Trees were never like that! and Those are the works of the Devil.

He would ride down to the settlement by the river in the morning. Meanwhile he cooked the rabbit, heated some beans and sipped the scalding coffee. Was he lonely? He was alone, but he was not unhappy and he wrapped his blanket around his tired body and fell asleep in seconds. He slept well, not dreaming much, not unusually anxious about the day to come.

******

From her window, Kate Tudor had noticed the silhouette of the rider on the ridge. He seemed to be sitting straighter in the saddle than she expected, though she could not say why she had noticed that. There's somebody who may be lonelier than I, she said aloud, as another streak of lightning made the rider look spindly like the stick people that children draw. She wondered if he would come to Rutland for the night. Then he was gone. She could not tell if he had ridden towards her down the slope or over the other way. As she moved to turn away from the window, a young woman approached her gate, then entered, closing that white garden door behind her. As she walked up the stone path, her skirt billowed in a sudden gust and she grabbed her hat with one hand in an automatic reflex to the teasing wind. In her other hand was a book, tightly held.

Kate grinned in sympathy as she saw rather than heard the visitor give a little scream, crossed the room to open the door and smiled at the ever-optimistic face of Dolly Jones. With such a companion, the evening might be brighter than she had feared.

There'll be a noisy storm tonight, Kate, said the visitor, her tone excited and breathless. Better make sure your windows are tight, and bring in anything that might blow away. You don't want to chase empty buckets all the way to Wyoming.

Kate took Dolly's woolen wrap and placed it neatly on a small table by the front door. The younger woman swept into the parlor and bounced herself into one of the two big armchairs. She held the book aloft.

I loved it! she exclaimed, then ran her hand through her curly hair.

Kate Tudor received packages of books occasionally from a friend in New York and they were like a gourmet meal for her mind, and for Dolly, who swore she would have gone insane or married some worthless acquaintance of her father's if she did not have them. Dolly's father was George Jones, probably the richest man in and around Rutland, a widower whose strategy for his daughter seemed to be to keep her at home until he found a man worthy to be her husband. So far he had not found such a man, nor anybody even close, and that suited Dolly very much. She was allowed to visit Kate Tudor (and her father sometimes sent somebody to make sure that was where she went) because Miss Tudor was a lady. There's no knowing what rough men will try to do if you give them encouragement, Mr. Jones had told his pouting daughter more than once. She did know. And she did not encourage anybody, not yet. She was eighteen, knew she was pretty and rich, and did not worry much that she would never find a husband. It was finding the right husband that worried her. Some young women she knew had married men more than twenty years older. She had been reading Kate's novels and her idea of a happy couple included two people quite close in age, constantly romantic and with no worries about banal subjects like housework, cooking or paying the mortgage.

Kate Tudor was a lady the likes of which Rutland had never seen.

She had arrived three years ago, unchaperoned, said she had traveled much of the way (more than a thousand miles, would you believe that!) by train. Yes, she had enjoyed it. No, it was not always comfortable. Yes, the other travelers had been interesting and mostly polite. She had been a passenger in a most uncomfortable coach for a couple of hundred miles and come the last miles on horseback. Alone. Trelawny, limping clerk at the True Row Hotel, had called to her from his chair by the counter to be careful with all the dust and grime when she entered the lobby that first day. Stamp your feet outside, mister!

The True Row Hotel was named and misspelled after the town of Truro in the western English county of Cornwall, known well to most of the miners who had come to Montana with their tools and powerful work ethic. Trelawny, whose limp was the legacy of a mine collapse further west, looked at the person who had come into his lobby, hauling two bags and grinning through the dust on… her face. It was a woman and Trelawny blushed suitably, scrambling to rise from his wooden chair and dropping the newspaper so that it fell like a pall over the threadbare rug behind the counter.

You are alone? he had asked. Beneath the traveler's dirt were small white teeth in a cheerful smile and eyes that flashed good humor. The right eyebrow went up a quarter of an inch and the lips slipped to the right in a cheerful, crooked smile.

Of course, my man. Can you see anybody with me?

You rode here alone?

I had a horse. He was good company. Do you have a clean room and a bath?

Word of the arrival of Miss Kate Tudor of New York - for such had she signed her name in the book that Trelawny insisted on keeping - spread like a fire on brown summer grass. Several denizens of Rutland, male and female, determined that a glimpse of the unusual woman would be a fine entertainment before supper. To give him credit, the hotel clerk had spread no rumors about his guest. He had mentioned she was pretty. He had mentioned her being alone. He had mentioned that she wore pants like a man and a long leather coat, fine leather soft and black. That was enough for a few women and far more men to come scurrying to the True Row. They had to see this phenomenon. She would not have caused much more interest if she had been recognized as a famous outlaw.

When she had taken an almost-hot bath, attacked her brown hair and dressed herself, Kate Tudor descended the stairs of the True Row Hotel to the foyer and swept past a small crowd to enter the restaurant. She was wearing a dark green dress, modest enough even if it left no doubt about her slim figure within. She had paused at the entrance, waiting for somebody to show her to a table. She ate heartily, spoke courteously to the waitress - it was Peggy, too, of the snappy tongue and impatient gestures. Miss Tudor of New York had praised the cooking. She invited no prolonged conversation but had not been impolite to anybody.

On the fourth day after her arrival in Rutland, Kate Tudor purchased the general store from Charlotte Day for more than it was worth. Charlotte stayed on, for wages, to help, and that suited her beautifully. In a town the size of Rutland, a store was hard work for a widow with two growing sons. And little profit. I'm glad to be rid of the responsibility, said Charlotte to friends who wondered if she minded being the employee rather than the boss now. She's a kind lady to work with, too. So far, anyway.

That was all three years ago.

Since then Rutland had seen a terrible winter when too many of the cattle had died and several families moved away for lack of income. George Jones had acquired more land. A new man had come to run the bank, a big man with a beard. Otto was his first name and his second was unpronounceable so he was known as Mr. Otto. The town had recovered well enough from the crippling winter, with some families surviving thanks only to the generosity of Kate Tudor at the store. She had extended credit when the bank would not do so, even though the bank had advised her not to do so.

Tonight Kate Tudor sat down in the armchair opposite Dolly Jones, rather more gracefully than the younger woman had landed, and asked her which character she liked the most in the book she had just finished.

I hated Steerforth! And I felt so sorry for Little Em'ly. You know, Kate, there are probably young women here in Rutland who are trapped into sin like her. What does a young woman do out here in the wilderness if she has dreams and there seems no way to fulfil them? I wonder how many of the girls at the Silver Seam have been forced to their way of life by bad circumstances?

I don't know, Dolly. Do you know any of them?

Dolly blushed a little, smiled mischievously.

Father doesn't know I know any of them. He'd be appalled! You wouldn't tell him, would you, Kate?

They sat together for more than two hours. The storm had reached Rutland. Kate wondered, just momentarily, if the rider on the ridge had found shelter. Dolly continued her rapturous account of David Copperfield, forgetting that Kate had read it before her.

When a small carriage arrived for Dolly, to protect her from the rain, she left.

Kate went to the window. There was no sign of the rider. She shrugged, sat down again the armchair and wondered if she should have stayed in New York.

CHAPTER 2

A bright morning with dripping tree branches welcomed Macauley when he awoke. It was not warm, but not freezing either. Brisk would be an apt description of that unfolding day in May. He stretched slowly. He took some coffee but decided to ride down to the town by the river for something substantial to eat - without beans, if possible. A day without beans would be good.

It was an easy ride and his horse seemed to step nonchalantly over the muddy ground, his gait easy, his powerful muscles unchallenged. The animal picked a path around puddles and small rocks dislodged in the overnight rain. Anybody hoping to grow crops this summer would have loved the rain. In the last two weeks, the warmth of the sun had seemed to be growing stronger daily and Macauley especially liked the feeling of the sun's rays on his back in the early morning. He had been traveling westward to this Montana territory for a few days now and he understood why people further east had told him to be prepared for plenty of blue sky. With nothing but occasional flat, low mesas to intrude, the sky seemed vast. He was still several hundred miles from the legendary Rocky Mountains and the flatness of the terrain since the Ohio River had been tedious, but easy enough to travel. The new State of Nebraska had seemed especially flat to him, with friendly, hard-working people and good cooking.

The absence of morning clouds contributed further to the pale blue majesty. A lone buzzard floated warily above them, king of the air for miles around. On the ground, little animals moved cautiously, instinctively aware of the taloned danger from above.

There had been few trees and little evidence of prosperous farming or ranching in his recent daily stages. It was now a rocky, dry country and last night's rain might be the last measurable moisture for days or even weeks. This would have been a difficult place for a pioneer family to have stopped and decided that it would, from this day on, be their home. Some free spirits pressing westward across the vast continent stopped because they had to, because their resources had run out before their goal of fertile Oregon or California. More than anybody cared to admit had died, too, not just children and not victims of Indian arrows. Sickness had claimed its fee to a usurious degree. All along his route west Macauley had seen the evidence of abandoned, broken wagons and carts, some crosses to mark the graves of brave, seemingly ordinary people who had hoped to find in the western territories that prosperity their parents had anticipated in the east. There had been printers, store clerks, clergymen, teachers, laborers and always the unemployed whose willingness was not enough to provide their daily needs. The growth of a new country is no less dangerous than that of a human baby, mused Macauley, with the threats of disease, neglect and war.

When he entered the town - somebody had burned RUTLAND, quite artistically in a calligraphic style, into a wooden sign - it was that time of day when most people start to come alive. At the livery stable on the edge of town a small youth was already fetching feed and water, an older man in baggy pants and torn shirt nagging him not to waste any with his clumsiness. Another youth was opening the shutters on a store. He was a big boy, slow in his movements but, Macauley guessed, very strong. He might have been fifteen, sixteen, difficult to tell from the sheer size of him, but his movements were those of a boy rather than a man. He waved to Macauley as he rode by and the rider waved back cheerfully.

A thin man, dressed in what might have been a decent suit when it was cleaned and pressed, staggered out of a saloon, shielded his eyes against the brilliance of the morning sun and walked uncertainly across the dusty street. Behind him, a young woman wearing not much more than underclothes was shouting words that seemed impolite, but scornful rather than angry. A large freight wagon with six horses rumbled along the main street, its driver a red-faced man with a pipe, its load a mixture of wooden boxes and well-stuffed sacks. The freighter waved and shouted (something that Macauley did not catch but it sounded ribald in its tone) at the young woman by the saloon. She did not wave back, clutched a thin pink robe around her to hide her near-nakedness and strutted back into the saloon, trying to salvage her respectability in public.

Macauley saw the word HOTEL and rode in that direction. He slipped easily from his saddle, tied his horse to a rail outside with a deft movement of his left hand. He left his packs of belongings on the horse, but not his rifle. Before entering the lobby he stamped his feet on the wooden sidewalk to shake off the damp, sandy street dirt.

Don't bring all that dirt in here, mister! commanded a reedy voice.

Trelawny, official greeter of strangers to Rutland and, specifically, the True Row Hotel, had not looked up from his chair. The footsteps on the sidewalk had disturbed his final hour's sleep and his reaction had been automatic. He yawned, looked up and took a mental photograph of the latest arrival. Taller than average, he stood straighter than most, tanned by travel in the sun, brown hair not too long, dark eyes, friendly enough smile. He was travel worn but he did not look destitute. After his years at the front desk, Trelawny thought he could estimate the worth of any visitor now. This one was worth more than most seen at the True Row Hotel.

Something you want at this time of day? he asked in a neutral tone that was neither polite nor impolite. A hint of a frown briefly crossed the features of the visitor.

Breakfast? Could you see if somebody would cook me a hearty meal?

If the cook's awake yet. Why should you be so lucky, huh?

How will I know? Would you find out for me? His accent was different from most travelers. In Rutland they had their share of Swedish, Cornish, Norwegian, French and German accents, and those of settlers from all places east. People took little notice as long they could understand what was said. This man had what Trelawny could only describe as an authoritative tone. It wasn't loud, more insistent. He asked questions but they seemed like orders. Some mine bosses spoke that way and got things done and themselves disliked by sweating workers.

I'm here! trilled a cheerful voice from an unseen listener.

Macauley walked into the restaurant area of the hotel and saw a rotund woman of indeterminate age standing with her hands of her hips. She wore a faded blue dress and, over it, an apron that was just closer to white than any other color. Macauley doffed his hat.

Good morning, ma'am, he said with a broad smile. Would I be correct in thinking that you can make the best eggs and bacon this side of the Mississippi River?

Fame at last! she said, clapping her hands and unable to control the smile that almost split her face in two. For you, sir, I can make the very best eggs and bacon and some bread fried in the fat that'll line your hungry stomach and keep you going for the whole morning, the whole day if you eat enough.

If it's as good as Grandma Rollins used to make, you are a champion indeed, ma'am.

Trelawny listened, bewildered and annoyed. Agnes Penball was never this cheerful early in the morning. She never swapped joking words with him. He shrugged his shoulders and went back to his counter, slapped his bad leg as if it were to blame for everything. Maybe it was.

The lone customer for breakfast removed his long leather coat, placed it tidily over the back of another chair at his table, rested his rifle against the wall behind him and sat down. From his position in the room he could see anybody who entered through the doorway and, with little effort, the whole room. It was a habit to which he had become accustomed in his travels.

The breakfast was as magnificent as Agnes Penball had intimated and it included no beans. She stood by the table, watched her customer eat ravenously, grinning at the obvious pleasure he received from the food, especially from the golden brown bread fried in the fat of the bacon. He looked up at her, not concerned that she was staring at him. Finishing a mouthful, he complimented her again on her skills in the kitchen.

Will you be here for supper, too? she asked with the excitement of one who relishes a happy customer who valued her skills. That pessimist Trelawny had never praised anything, not even that cake she had made for his birthday in December.

I don't know. That depends on what happens between now and then.

Have you come far? Her question broke the unwritten rule that you don't pry into the business of strangers but Macauley didn't seem to mind. He told her he had come from Boston, from further away than that really, and he had traveled by train and stagecoach, and on his horse.

You ought to meet Kate Tudor, then, she laughed, wiping her hands on her apron for the forty-third time. That's just about what she did three years ago. Came here from New York.

He showed no sign of recognition at the name of Kate Tudor. Mrs. Penball shrugged. She was one of those who imagined that if you came from back east you would know everybody else who came from back east, like people who had once met a man from Chicago or New York and surely you knew him if you'd been there? You must know Tom Walters. He has a big moustache and smokes a pipe or Betty Sanders was her name here. Of course, she may be married now but you'd know her if you saw her. She always wears green.

There was a sudden commotion in the lobby. A youth - it was the big one who had been opening the store shutters earlier - was getting a tongue lashing from Trelawny. He was carrying a bundle. It was some of Macauley's gear. The owner rose slowly from his breakfast table.

I only wanted to tell him, said the boy. I wasn't stealing it, Trelawny.

You were trying to steal it! accused Trelawny. You've never been any good.

I wasn't, I wasn't.

A few more people, passing in the street, had heard the commotion and entered the lobby. The youth, big as he was, looked frightened.

Macauley walked over to the doorway and smiled at the youth.

Did that fall off my horse?

No, no, it didn't, but you shouldn't have left it there. Somebody will steal it. I took it off to bring it in. I swear I wasn't stealing it.

Give it to the man, snapped Trelawny. He picked up a hefty stick and advanced on the youth, who tried to back away but had no room left in which to maneuver.

Don't! said Macauley.

The single word sounded like…. a pistol shot. There was a sudden silence.

Trelawny held the stick aloft ready to strike the youth. The latter's mouth was open, not knowing what words to utter. The onlookers stared at the tall stranger, who looked relaxed and not at all angry about anything despite the sharpness of his command.

Macauley stretched out his hand to the youth.

Thank you for guarding my belongings, young man. It was kind of you to do so.

The youth gave him the pack and Macauley swung it easily over his shoulder. He turned to return to the table where his breakfast was almost finished. En route, he paused and looked hard at Trelawny, still clutching the stick. He shook his head.

Let the boy go, sir. He meant no harm.

The little crowd dispersed. Agnes Penball surveyed her customer with increased interest. She took his plate when he had finished, noticing that it had been wiped clean with the last of the fried bread. She smiled.

That was kind of you, sir, she said.

The boy meant no harm. Who is he?

Jimmy. He's never been too bright, always been teased. He works for Kate Tudor, carries things for her, opens the store in the morning.

Kate Tudor. There was that name again.

CHAPTER 3

Who knows what fates or preternatural forces take a person to a certain place at a certain time? Are some of those apparent coincidences simply tests of human worth from a superior Power? Why did Macauley go to that store at that time, that morning?

He needed supplies; he could not deny that. The big youth he had rescued from the accusing verbal bludgeons of Trelawny the cantankerous hotel clerk - was he ever in a good temper? - had been opening the shutters of what looked like a general store when Macauley passed by, not more than two hundred yards down the street from the hotel. After his most satisfying breakfast, he did not mount his horse but walked with him to the store. The animal nudged his appreciation and continuing friendship with noises that sounded too gentle for such a big horse.

There were more people in the street now, getting set for another day. What day of the week was it? He was not sure. Nor was he sure that it mattered. The people did not seem to move as quickly or urgently as workers in a big city, and their clothes were more casual, less formal. The youth, holding a broom like a sentry's weapon, was standing in the doorway of the store, caught sight of the approaching man and horse, and disappeared inside. Macauley could hear his excited voice gabbling loudly to somebody within.

He left his horse and, still holding his rifle loosely, put his foot on the first of four wooden steps to the store entrance. The steps looked recently scrubbed and the verandah in front of the store was free of litter and equally clean. His boots left some of the damp dirt they had collected from the street on the freshly-cleaned surface, and that seemed a shame.

I must thank you, said a feminine voice a few feet in front of him in the shadows of the store's interior.

He paused, looked up to see Kate Tudor standing there, next to Jimmy, the big boy. She was wearing a blouse and skirt of blue denim, with a faded brown leather vest and boots polished well enough to suit any sergeant major. Even Cocky Cochran would have approved, smiled Macauley to himself. Two pairs of blue eyes met, held, and liked what they saw.

Your gratitude is most welcome, ma'am, but I'm not sure why you are thanking me.

For saving Jimmy from that hotel clerk's tongue.

I think he could have taken care of himself without me.

No, he couldn't, said Kate quietly. She gave Jimmy, almost a head taller than she, a hug around his shoulders and pulled his head down to whisper in his ear. He grinned shyly, walked away quickly (weaving through box and sack obstacles with a surprising dexterity) and went through the back entrance. Seconds later were heard the sounds of boxes being moved around, heavy footsteps on a wooden floor and a voice humming cheerfully, with occasional words thrown in for good measure. Macauley thought it was Barbara Allen.

He's a big boy.

He's afraid of almost everybody.

Why?

He was treated brutally as a child and he has never forgotten that people hate him. Some folks in Rutland have always made him feel that he is lower than human, as if he were an animal. He has no family here. They were killed in an Indian raid when he was quite small. He is the Smike of our fair city.

Dickens, thought Macauley. That was a surprise in this remote corner. Another innocent destroyed. You are obviously not a Nicholas Nickleby, ma'am. You have….. mothered him?

Why are we having this conversation? asked Kate, equally amazed that the man on her doorstep knew Charles Dickens. I'm sure you have a journey to start and no time to prattle at the store, she continued, not sure if she resented being taken for somebody who would be a mother rather than a sister to young Jimmy. You must have come here for supplies. You do not need to know the history of Rutland nor the social problems of our Jimmy. What can I sell you that would lighten the burdens of your journey? She smiled at him. One side, the right, of her mouth curled up higher than the other.

Macauley raised an eyebrow. He was almost certain there was no double entendre in her question but one did not always know. He had imagined that the attentions of Madame Quimper in the French city of Colmar were simply friendship until she made it clear that her widowhood had made the company of an attractive man a yearning as physical as it was mental. Kate Tudor - he assumed it was she - was standing with her legs apart, her hands on her hips. It reminded him of a palace guard daring him to enter; she should have been holding a wicked scimitar.

She was far more attractive than any sentry he had ever seen. Despite the masculine stance, the forearms with small but clearly strong muscles and the tall boots, the person before him was certainly a woman of above average attraction. Her look was not bold or brazen, however. Confident, thought Macauley. This was a queen in her kingdom, surveying all. At that moment, she was surveying him, measuring him like a roll of cloth for texture and strength?

I need the usual supplies for a journey westward. I am traveling alone.

She moved around the room, her skirt slapping her boots at mid-calf as she went to some sacks of grains and beans towards the back of the store. Macauley had noticed that her skirt did not touch the floor, a practical consideration for somebody who must spend much of her time moving about in limited space, collecting bags and cans from shelves and cupboards. The heels on her boots were quite low, not the high grippers favored by cowboys who spend their lives in stirrups. Her hair was tied up away from her face in a practical style, with only a few loose ends waving out of place, like young soldiers who might break line on parade to wave to wives and children.

She was picking out items from her supplies without asking what he wanted.

You are Kate Tudor?

Of course, she answered without stopping her work. She tutted when she found an item that struck her as inferior and placed it on the floor beside the sack. And you?

Macauley.

Just Macauley? she asked with only the slightest pause.

Macauley.

She made several neat packages, tied them, put them into a small burlap sack, did some mental arithmetic and told him the amount he owed her. Now she brushed back the wisps of rebel hair, folded her arms across her chest and looked at him as if to say that she had done her part and now it was time for him to do his - pay up. She looked all business. There were no rings on her fingers.

Practice makes perfect, said Macauley lamely, indicating the neat package. I don't think I could ever have done it so tidily, nor so fast. Thank you.

She paused and laughed. Or, rather, she laughed then paused.

I was born into this business, Mr. Macauley. It's second nature to me.

Born here? In Rutland?

New York. Do you need any clothes? She eyed his fine leather coat and it was now her turn to raise an eyebrow. I guess not. That coat did not come from this territory. My uncle Henry had one similar and I think he had it made by a tailor in the city. He paid twice as much as he should.

This one's from Boston, smiled Macauley. This was the best conversation he had had in days! He didn't want it to stop. You have an Uncle Henry Tudor? He didn't have six wives, did he?

She laughed. I went to Boston once. Liked it. I liked the river.

With your family?

Yes. Back there I did everything with my family.

He had taken out money and was counting it onto the counter. He had placed his rifle on the other end and she had not seemed concerned about its presence in her peaceful store. He had learned soon after his arrival in America that firearms were not a rare sight in city streets. The further westward he came, the more pistols and rifles he saw openly in view or carried. People had told him it was because they feared attacks by Indians but he had come to believe, in only a few weeks, that the guns had more significance than that. They were symbols of independence, warnings that you others should not step on me! Having seen so much violent death in his government service, Macauley was saddened by the willingness of ordinary people to resort so quickly to violence, especially violence as deadly as that of the gun, for solutions to disagreements, many of which could have been settled with words instead of bullets. For some of the men who had served with Macauley, it was the non-fatal wounds that gave the most pain and a lifetime of misery when they prevented the man from doing as much labor as other men. It was difficult for a wounded soldier, perhaps with only one arm or one leg, or a slowing limp like Trelawny's, to get well-paid work to support a family.

Kate looked straight at him, that right side of her lips curling up again almost mischievously. The intelligence that sparkled in her blue eyes was a magnet for his mental thirst.

If you were here longer… Macauley… we might talk more of eastern cities and Mr. Dickens.

Did you live long in New York? Do you miss them?

He still could not tell the real color of her eyes. Blue almost gray? Green? Could they possibly change color as she moved or changed