High Plains Passion

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1July 1889

Bang

Lydia knew the time without having to look at the clock on the back wall of her sweltering kitchen. The constant slamming open and shut of the dining room door told her noon had arrived, and the lunch crowd with it, in search of repast after a morning hard at work.

Wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of one floury hand, she scooped up the tray of sandwiches from her preparation table and shouldered open the door into the dining room, savoring the relative coolness. Well of course it's cooler. There's no stove in here. She took the long way around the room, past the east side windows, which stood open in hopes that the movement of the hot prairie breeze would pass through as it billowed down Main Street, carrying with it the next load of dust. Residents of Western Kansas had to be tolerant of blowing dirt, especially in the summer. The breeze in no way felt cool, but at least it was moving. A sigh of relief dragged itself past her lips.

Arriving at the service counter, Lydia set the tray of sandwiches next to her cashier and general assistant, Esther, who began piling them on plates.

Lydia circled the room, her black boots clunking on the bare wooden floorboards. Well, no surprise, I'm far from a small woman. I can't trip lightly along like Becky can… or could, she amended with a grin. Her friend's increasing weight had added a decided thump to her normally feather-light steps. Even at thirty-five, she was still a radiant bride… and her 'honeymoon special' looks good on her so far. Suppressing a petulant internal whine that questioned whether she'd ever find what Becky had, Lydia concentrated on her work, rolling up her sleeves in an attempt to cool her sweaty flesh further.

By now, the regulars had become accustomed to seeing their plump, black-haired proprietress with the sleeves of her gingham dress rolled up above the elbow, but she caught some scornful glances from a couple of strangers at the table nearest the west window.

Inwardly, Lydia shrugged. What do I care if these two catch a glimpse of my forearms? They'll get their lunch like everyone else, glances notwithstanding. It's too hot to fuss, especially when there's work to be done.

She dusted her floury hands on her apron, raising a white cloud in the room, and circled, greeting all the patrons and those passing through by train. As she passed, she let them know the day's lunch menu. Lydia didn't go in much for choices. In the summer, lunch always consisted of a sandwich on one of the homemade rolls she baked fresh each morning, a pickle, a piece of fruit, and a drink: coffee, water, or buttermilk.

The fussy couple turned their noses up at her homey fare. “Come on, Marge,” the man said. “We could have brought sandwiches from home. Let's try the hotel across the street.”

With another glare at the proprietress, they exited. Lydia grinned. “Shouldn't someone tell them the nickname of the hotel?” she asked.

The other diners snickered into their cups.

“What do you mean, ma'am?” a stranger with silver hair asked her, wiping coffee from a luxurious, curling mustache.

With a laugh, Lydia replied, “It's true they have a menu and options, but they also have a reputation, with the nickname of Accidental Hotel, because if you ever got fed there, it would be by accident.”

The man chuckled, his dark eyes twinkling.

Lydia winked at him and moved on. Once she had greeted all the customers, she and Esther began handing out the plates and cups, moving carefully around the room to avoid tripping on the loose boards that were beginning to poke up here and there.

A strong gust of sultry wind puffed in through the open window, ruffling the napkins on all the tables and sending several to the floor.

Young Billy Fulton scurried around picking them up. He was a conscientious lad, perhaps not the brightest, but well-intentioned, and Lydia liked him.

“Thank you, Billy,” she told him, collecting the napkins from his hands.

He grinned, showing his missing front tooth.

Lydia grinned back. “Now take a seat,” she urged him. “I know you're hungry. I made an extra-big sandwich, just for you.

Billy flopped into the spindly chair, which groaned under his substantial weight, and accepted the plate Esther brought him. He would be earning that extra slice of ham later, when he came back to sweep up.

The door banged open again, but this time the noise of heavy boots tromping across the floor added to its clatter.

Lydia froze, turned to look at the newcomer, and felt her face flush. “Hello, Sheriff,” she said, trying to control the nervous tremor in her voice.

“Hello Miss Lydia,” he replied, pulling off his black Stetson by way of a greeting, setting it on a table, and settling into a chair.

She hurried to bring him a meal, fighting to still the trembling of her hands. Setting the plate on the rough wood, she turned to leave.

He grasped her wrist.

Lydia gasped at the unexpected contact. The sheriff reached up a large, calloused hand and wiped at her cheek. His fingers came away white.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing the words out above the pounding of her heart.

He released her wrist and she returned to the counter without another word.

“He's sweet on you,” Esther said in a carrying whisper.

“I know,” she replied, her face burning.

“And you're sweet on him too, ain't you?”

Lydia replied with a curt nod.

“Well then go get him, girl. Why don't you?” The old woman punctuated her advice with a cackle that drew attention.

“Let's talk about it later,” Lydia suggested. “We have work to do.” The first customer to finish his lunch, a burly farmhand called Rooster McGee, stepped up to the counter and dropped a handful of coins on the polished wood.

“These real?” Esther demanded, giving the man a suspicious and squinty-eyed glare.

His jaw dropped. “Yes, ma'am,” he insisted, bewildered.

“Come on, Essie,” Lydia urged her friend with a laugh. “It's been how many years since he gave you that plug nickel? He's a grown man now. Let's forget it.”

“Thanks, Miz Lydia,” the young man said, pushing sandy hair out of his eyes and stuffing his bedraggled straw hat back on top. Giving Esther a sour look, he scooted for the door. She cackled again.

“Stop flirting with the young men, you old hussy,” Lydia teased.

Esther's chuckles turned to peals of surprisingly musical laughter. “I'll flirt when I want to,” the old woman snapped. “One of us should be eyeing the handsome men. If it ain't gonna be you, well I may be old, but I ain't dead yet.”

“You're a dirty old woman,” Lydia replied primly, swiping a cloth over the crumbs on the counter.

“And you're a silly young prude,” Esther shot back. “That sheriff is a fine figure of a man. I'd be swarming all over him if he didn't have 'Lydia's private property' stamped over every inch.”

“Fiddlesticks. I haven't claimed a thing,” Lydia retorted, her cheeks heating.

“And just why in tarnation haven't you?” Esther demanded. “You're not getting any younger. If I was you, I'd hurry up and claim him. Pull him into an alley if you have to… or are you holding out for a ring?”

It slowly dawned on Lydia that the object of their indiscreet conversation might just be sitting behind her, close enough to hear every word. Slowly, her belly fluttering to nausea, she turned… and found the café deserted. Thank you, Lord. “Dylan and I are friends,” she said as she circled the room, collecting coins and cups from the tables.

“But you want more.” It seemed, despite the mock argument having ended, Esther was not willing to let the subject drop.

Stomping down a loose board, Lydia turned to her friend. “I know,” she replied, “but don't you think, if he's interested, he should approach me?”

“If he does, sure,” Esther replied with a shrug, “but if he don't, you should. You're no shy little violet. Go after him.”

“I might, eventually,” Lydia replied, “but I'll be the one to decide when.”

“When you've got one foot in the grave, most likely,” the older woman muttered, opening the till so Lydia could drop the coins inside. Lydia pretended not to hear.

Letting the conversation drop, Lydia swiped the rag from the counter and worked her way around the room, flipping crumbs off the wood of each table with half-embarrassed, half-angry twitches.

Before she could work herself into a greater tizzy, the door banged open again. Lydia frowned as one of her least-favorite people flounced into the room in a flurry of blue taffeta. The new arrival's full pinks lips curled into a smile Lydia always thought of as malevolent. She sighed. “Good afternoon, Miss Jackson. How can I help you? Lunch is over, you know.”

Ilse Jackson, resident gossip and all-around troublemaker trilled a flirtatious laugh, as though Lydia had said something funny, though there was no rich man anywhere nearby. She must be practicing.

“Oh, come now, Miss Carré, you know I never eat in here. We have a cook.”

Poor thing, working for those overstuffed snobs, Lydia thought, turning her back as though to fiddle with the cash register. Out of sight of Ilse's sneering face, Lydia quickly crossed herself. “So, if you're not here to eat, why are you here? I've never known you to set foot in my café.” And thank the Blessed Virgin for that.

“I have a proposition for you,” Ilse replied, one eyebrow raised though it didn't cause the slightest crease in her perfectly smooth, perfectly white forehead. Disgusting. She's like a china doll. “This town has been run by the men for far too long, and it's about time we ladies make our mark. This isn't the frontier. We're a real town, have been for over a decade, and we need to assert our civilizing influence.”

That's sure a whole lot of words that don't mean anything. “All right, Miss Jackson, you pose an interesting point. However, I'm not sure I agree that the men are completely in charge around here—after all, plenty of local businesses are run by women—but I'm listening.” Get to the point. I've been up since three this morning and I want to close down the café and rest. Lydia bit her tongue to prevent bitter words from spilling out. Ilse might be an obnoxious brat, but as long as she was being relatively polite, Lydia could match her.

“I'm proposing we found a Ladies' Council. So many times my father has told me there's no money in the town budget for the activities and events I think are important, but if all the influential women in town pool their resources, we don't need to worry about what they think. We can do what we need to do regardless of their opinion.”

“It's an interesting notion,” Lydia said cautiously. With her father running for mayor, it's no surprise he's keeping a tighter hold on the town's purse strings. His years as president of the town council aren't marked by generous spending anyway. “Tell me more.”

“I've approached all the wives and daughters of all the influential families in this town.” She ran through a list of names, ending with a sour expression as she added, “And of course Kristina Williams and the Spencer sisters. You were last on my list.”

Lydia blinked. “Well then. I'm not sure if I qualify as the daughter or wife of anyone influential, but I am quite certain I own the most successful female-run business in town.”

“That's true. That's why I'm here.” Ilse's lips puckered to lemon sourness. Lydia couldn't decide whether to smack her or offer her a sugar cube. “That and we need a place to meet. If you would volunteer your café… and maybe some refreshments, that would be appreciated.”

“So, let me make sure I understand,” Lydia replied. “You want me to volunteer my place of business and give away free food to an organization you aren't sure you want me in, that I haven't agreed to join yet?”

Ilse didn't even have the grace to look sheepish. She merely nodded.