Song of My Heart (30 page)

The girl skittered inside without a backward glance. Asa cackled to himself. When he was a kid, he’d noticed only the tall, good-looking boys got the girls to do their bidding. Asa might be short and homely with a balding pate and a paunchy gut, but he had one very pretty girl in the palm of his hand. He swaggered around the building to the hitching post, where Percival drowsed in the late-afternoon sun, the silver bangles on his saddle gleaming like stars.

With tugs on the reins and a few pushes on Percival’s hindquarters, he maneuvered the big stallion alongside the porch railing. Grunting with exertion, he climbed from the boardwalk onto the railing and then heaved himself into the saddle. Percival snorted as Asa’s weight settled on his back, and Asa bounced his heels on the horse’s ribs to show his lordship.

“Giddap now, Percival. Home.” Asa jerked the reins, turning Percival toward the road. The horse obediently broke into a trot, and Asa held tight. He kept his gaze aimed ahead, but even so he was aware of folks giving him a look as the horse made his majestic exit from town.

Asa smirked. So he wasn’t a handsome man. Looks faded. But money was power. He had money. Lots of money. And lots of power. Wouldn’t those school bullies be jealous when Butterball Baxter returned to High Ridge, Ohio, and built his mansion smack-dab in the center of town? He sniggered, imagining their stunned faces. Then he sobered. Before he could see his plans through, he had to eliminate the one barrier to his success.

He gave Percival’s glossy sides a kick, hurrying the big horse into a steady lope. “Giddap there. I got work to do.”

Sadie held the little flickering lantern in front of her and tiptoed up the stairway, determined not to rouse Miss Melva or Miss Shelva. Holding her breath, she made her way along the short hallway to her room and then closed her door behind her with a gentle click. Once inside her room, she placed the lantern on the top of the dresser, released her lungful of air, and cast all caution aside.

With jerky motions, she yanked the black velvet hat from her head and tossed it on the little chair in the corner. The red dress quickly followed. She skimmed out of her slip and chemise, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and whisked into her nightgown. The buttons proved tricky, her trembling fingers refusing to cooperate, but finally she fastened the gown to her chin. Snatching up her brush, she attacked her hair with vicious strokes, a feeble attempt to remove every remnant of the past three hours from her memory. But after several minutes of frantic brushing, she’d accomplished little more than adding a stinging scalp to an equally aching heart.

Setting the brush aside, she sank onto the bed. Tears pricked. If she filled the washtub and scrubbed herself with a bar of St. Croix soap, would she feel clean again? Surely Thad’s skunk smell was preferable to the indecorous essence she now carried. Burying her face in her hands, she leaned over her lap and tried to erase the images from her mind. But they played out before her closed lids, as persistent as the little moth now bouncing against the lantern’s globe.

The beginning of the evening had felt like any other performance, except for the all-male audience—an audience that changed frequently, with men coming and going through the doorway Mr. Baxter had exposed by tying back the curtains. With each visit to the other side of the door, the men became rowdier, clumsier, more jovial. And more leering. She shuddered, shrinking into herself as she recalled the sour-smelling man who’d joined her onstage toward the end of her performance. The moment he slung his arm around her shoulders, two others jumped up and yanked him away, starting a scuffle that lasted nearly ten minutes before Mr. Baxter got them settled down again.

Dropping her hands, she sat straight up and sucked in several breaths, trying to clear her senses of the sickly sweet odor that had hung over the opera room by the night’s end. The strength of the stench and the boisterousness of the men had increased at the same rate until Sadie wanted to run from the room and hide. Although Papa hadn’t been a drinking man, many of the other miners were. She’d witnessed their behavior when they’d sampled what Mama called the devil’s brew. So Sadie knew the men were imbibing on the other side of that door. She also knew it was illegal. How had she gotten herself tangled up in providing entertainment for drunkards?

With a groan, she fell sideways onto the bed and pulled up her knees, curling into a ball. The weeks stretched ahead of her, each requiring another performance under similar circumstances. How would she survive? “I can’t do it. I can’t sing to men who ogle me and sway in their seats and shout out crude comments. I must tell Thad—”

She snapped her jaw shut, sending the thought from her mind. She couldn’t tell Thad what was happening in the opera room on Tuesday nights. Mr. Baxter would be arrested, and she’d lose her singing job. She must sing. She must send the money home to Mama.

Rolling to her other side, she peered through the meager lantern glow at the family portrait. Her gaze fell on Papa’s dear, handsome, steadfast face. Tears welled in her eyes, distorting his sweet image. “Oh, Papa, this long-held dream to be a singer . . . it’s become my nightmare. We thought my coming here was an answer to prayer, but now . . .” An anguished wail left Sadie’s throat. “Why did you have to get hurt and die? I need you. I
need
you . . .”

In the morning, Sadie frowned at her image in the little mirror above the dresser. Red-rimmed, puffy eyes stared back from a pale face. She pinched her cheeks until she raised a rosy hue. Then she dipped a handkerchief in her washbowl, wrung it out, and held it over her aching eyes for several minutes. She peeked again. The ministrations had accomplished little. She sighed. Did she really believe some cool water would hide the effects of a sleepless night?

She twisted her hair into a coil and secured it with pins, her stomach whirling in apprehension. Thad had promised to come by and arrange a time for them to go for a drive. So they could talk. Mr. Baxter had demanded she end her courtship with the town’s sheriff, and now that she’d involved herself in illegal dealings, she had no choice. Spending time with Thad, holding the secret inside, would be too difficult. She must break all ties with Thad.

But would she find the strength to do so? Although she’d only known him a short time, she felt drawn to him. She admired him, respected him, and felt safe with him. He didn’t shower her with flowery praise or offer little gifts of adoration, yet she knew he cared for her. She saw it in his eyes and in the tenderness of his smile. In his presence, she experienced the contentedness of homecoming. Telling Thad she couldn’t accept his courtship would be even harder than continuing to sing on Tuesday nights. But she would do it. For Mama and the children, she would do it.

She left her room but headed straight down the stairs rather than going to the kitchen for breakfast. Miss Melva and Miss Shelva would scold, but she couldn’t eat. Dread thoroughly filled her middle. Maybe she’d have room for food after she’d talked to Thad. Surely this awful lump of trepidation would lift once she’d followed Mr. Baxter’s orders. She went through her usual routine of unlocking the front door and propping it open. A rain-scented breeze coursed through the screen door.

Sadie stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and peeked at the sky. Gray clouds hung in rippling waves, resembling dozens of sheets suspended by their corners. She shivered, even though the air was warm and moist. A summer storm was brewing. She hoped Sid wouldn’t run into foul weather as he traveled back from Beloit. And she hoped the stormy sky wasn’t a sign of how Thad would respond when she told him he could no longer court her.

She turned to go back into the store, but her nose caught the faint whiff of skunk. Her mouth went dry, and she turned slowly. Thad stood at the corner of the mercantile. The sight of him—green eyes shaded by the brim of the familiar cowboy hat and six-pointed star shining on his chest—sealed her feet in place. She wanted to smile a greeting, but her face felt frozen. So she stared, unblinking, waiting for him to speak.

He lifted his hand and removed his hat, but he didn’t approach. “Sadie . . .”

She gulped. “Thad.” Tangling her hands in her apron, she forced her clumsy tongue to form words. “How are you this morning?”

A rueful grin lifted one corner of his lips. “Still stinky. That’s why I’m staying over here.”

Sadie wished she could giggle at his statement, but she couldn’t summon even a smidgen of levity. She flicked a glance skyward. “A storm is brewing. Guess that means we . . . we won’t be able to take that ride this evening after all.”

He turned his gaze toward the clouds. Bouncing his hat against his thigh, he looked at her again. “No need to be so quick to abandon our plans. I could rent that covered buggy from Bill Kimbrough. It’d keep us fairly dry, I think, if it’s still raining by evening.”

Sadie had seen the mayor and his wife riding around town in the black leather Phaeton buggy and had wondered what it would be like to sit beneath the fringed canopy on the narrow, tufted seat with Thad. Thanks to Mr. Baxter’s demands, she’d never know. “I . . . I don’t think so.”

His brows beetled, but she sensed that puzzlement rather than anger created the reaction. “How come?”

Guilt took a throttlehold on her heart. She couldn’t meet his gaze. So she shifted her face slightly, peering beyond his shoulder. “I . . . I don’t have time. I have to w-work.” Bits and pieces of last night’s performance returned to haunt her.

“Mercantile closes at six. Bedtime’s at—what?—nine-thirty or ten?” Thad’s gentle voice held a teasing note. “Seems as though we’d be able to fit an hour-long drive in there.”

“I know, but . . .”

“Are you like a cat—get all ruffled up if you get wet?”

The first splat of fat raindrops landed on the street. The heavy drops left little dents behind. Sadie felt as though his sweet teasing left bruises on her heart. She wished he’d get frustrated. Demanding. Indignant. Then it would be easier to send him away. “No, I’m not afraid of the rain.”

His expression turned serious. “Sadie, I’ve been needing to talk to you about something. I don’t want to put it off any longer. It’s important.”

She swallowed. “I’m sorry, Thad. I just can’t . . . tonight.”

“Well, then, how about tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow either.”

He flicked the hat back and forth against his trouser leg, the soft
whish-whish
competing with the patter of raindrops landing on the porch roof overhead. “Friday an’ Saturday nights you have to sing, so how about Sunday afternoon? I’ll reserve the buggy.” A faint grin creased his smooth-shaven cheek. “By then, I oughtta be fully rid of all the skunk smell, an’ this rain will have cleared. We’ll have a nice drive.”

Agony twisted her chest. “Not Sunday either.”

He sighed, the first hint of impatience. “Well, then, you pick the day an’ time.”

She wove her fingers together and pressed her hands to her trembling stomach. “That’s the problem, Thad. I can’t choose a day or time. I’m . . . I’m just too busy. And . . .” Sucking in a breath of fortification, she finished in a rush. “It isn’t fair of me to always put you off, so . . . so maybe . . .”

Despite his stated intention to maintain distance between them, he strode forward. Dropping his hat onto the porch floor, he took hold of her upper arms. He dipped his knees and looked directly into her face. “Are you saying you’ll
never
go driving with me?”

Sadie’s chin quivered. Her chest grew so tight it hurt to breathe.
Help me. Help me,
her thoughts begged
.
Her throat closed, her tongue too thick and clumsy for speech. So she nodded mutely.

“But why?”

His genuine confusion nearly broke Sadie’s heart. But what could she say? At least Thad would never witness her in that red satin dress, singing lusty songs.

Apparently he wearied of waiting for an answer, because he released her and took one backward step. His eyes glinted, his irises darkening to evergreen. “I thought we were building something special, but . . .” He bent over stiffly and retrieved his hat, slapping it onto his head in one smooth motion. “I guess I was wrong. All right, Miss Sadie. I won’t bother you anymore.”

He turned and strode away, the thud of his bootheels on the planked boardwalk matching the first rumble of thunder.

29 

S
omehow Sadie made it through Wednesday and Thursday without breaking down. But it took every bit of self-control she possessed. Although Thad didn’t set foot in the mercantile, she saw him everywhere. Each time she glimpsed the jar of candy sticks, she envisioned his fingers grasping a sackful of the striped treats to share with the town’s youngsters. In a green bolt of calico, she saw the color of his eyes. While organizing a shipment of men’s razors in the glass case on the counter, her fingers brushed the soft velvet backing and immediately she thought of the softness of Thad’s mustache against her lips.

She’d sent him away, but she couldn’t escape him.

Miss Melva and Miss Shelva clucked over her like a pair of overprotective hens, aware that Sadie’s heart was breaking. They threatened to march on down to the sheriff’s office and give Thad a good tongue-lashing, but Sadie managed to hold them at bay. It warmed her that the spinster twins were willing to stand up for her, but her heartache was her own doing—not Thad’s. And she told them so, earning a fresh round of questions she couldn’t answer.