The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Read online

  No, the difficult part was adapting to the lack of privacy. In a town this size, everyone knew everyone else’s business, and he often felt he was conducting his social life in a brandy snifter.

  Mattawa was small; if he paid a call on a pretty girl, everyone in town knew about it before the morning paper was delivered.

  He’d grown accustomed to Eugene. You could flirt with a debutante at a charity ball, or pay your two dollars at a bawdy house and take your pick of any girl in the establishment.

  At least your affairs, be they innocent or sordid, weren’t bruited about town by the time you emerged for breakfast.

  Of course, Jake admitted with a certain wryness to himself, it was entirely possible that Eugene might not have impressed him as being so much freer and less hypocritical had he spent more time there courting the city’s nice girls and less time visiting the women in the various bawdy houses. It likely boiled down to a matter of perspective.

  In any event, the arrival of Hattie Witherspoon Taylor was a welcome one . . . if for no other reason than she didn’t monitor every damn word she spoke before it left her mouth. He imagined, for her own survival, that would change. But for now, at least, she harbored no fear of appearing less than morally upright in the public’s eye. That little girl said exactly what was on her mind. It was a quality Jake admired. Even if it was one he seldom saw in this small town.

  Not that he in any way regretted his return to Mattawa.

  Sure, he missed some of the pleasures and the anonymity to be found in a larger town. But this was his home. It was where his mother lived, and she was his only remaining close relative. It was where he was building his career and would someday raise his own family. And as an unequivocal plus, Mattawa boasted Jane-Ellen Fielding.

  The town had acquired a new doctor while Jake was in Eugene. According to the letter Augusta wrote him at the time, Doc Fielding’s arrival was heralded with only a little less fanfare than she expected the Second Coming to garner. That wasn’t the blasphemy a stranger might believe it to be, for there had been only one other doctor in town at the time, and anyone with a lick of sense knew better than to rely on Doc Baker’s help after four in the afternoon.

  Old Doc Baker was a notorious tippler and the tremors in his hands became more pronounced as the evening progressed. The need for emergency medical treatment was a ghastly occurrence to be avoided at all costs, as anyone who’d ever had the misfortune to require stitches after dusk could attest. Small wonder the new doctor had been welcomed so warmly.

  Augusta had also written about Doc Fielding’s lovely daughter, Jane-Ellen. At the time, Jake was caught up in his life away from home and hadn’t paid much attention. More fool he.

  Shortly after returning to Mattawa, Jake was introduced to Jane-Ellen. His captivation had been immediate and total. She was perfection personified. Were a textbook written on the budding flower of womanhood, Jane-Ellen Fielding would be its model. She was sweet natured, blond, and beautiful. The ideal woman. And suddenly, years before he ever contemplated he would, Jake Murdock was entertaining the notion of matrimony.

  “Entertain” being the operative word at this point. He pulled up to the hitching post in front of the dressmaker’s establishment.

  It wasn’t difficult to convince the modiste to accompany him back to the house. Augusta Murdock was a valued customer, and the prospect of supplying an entire wardrobe for her young ward was clearly an enticing one. The woman gathered her pattern books, fabric samples, and such ready-made apparel in Hattie’s general size as she had on hand. After locking up her shop, she allowed Jake to assist her into the buggy.

  * * *

  —

  The pandemonium coming from an upstairs bedroom assaulted their ears the moment Jake opened the front door. Hattie’s voice, strident with anger, overrode the faint murmurs of the two older women. The actual words were indistinguishable, but the tone was unmistakable. Ushering the dressmaker into the parlor, Jake ignored her avid curiosity and excused himself. He loped up the stairs two at a time.

  Following the noise down the hall, he reached the room Augusta had prepared for Hattie and tapped on the door. His knock apparently went unheard over the commotion inside, so he turned the knob and pushed the door open. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded. “Hattie, hush up.”

  To his surprise, Hattie hushed. She stood with her back to the wall, swathed in Augusta’s dressing gown, which was four times too large for her. The blue fabric pooled around Hattie’s feet and gaped in the front, exposing her sturdy flat-planed chest. Droplets of moisture still dappled her pale skin and her drenched, copper-bright hair clung to her skull, sleek as a seal’s and darkened by the water plastering it in a fan across her shoulders and down her back. The robe’s arms had been rolled several times, yet still hung to her fingertips.

  Cutting herself off in mid-tirade, she picked up the skirts of the dressing gown and ran to Jake. Gripping his hand, she stared up at him with big, demanding eyes.

  “Make them give me back my bag!”

  “Oh, for . . . Mother, give her the bag. Mirabel, go down and offer the modiste refreshment.”

  Mirabel handed the carpetbag to Hattie and left the room. Hattie immediately dropped to her knees on the floor and opened it up.

  “I was only trying to prevent her from donning another pair of those dreadful boys’ overalls,” Augusta murmured.

  He patted her hand. “I understand, Mother. But the satchel appears to be the only thing she can call her own.” Glancing across the room, he swore beneath his breath.

  “Hattie!” he roared. “Put that wrapper back on this instant!”

  3

  Jake’s loud voice made Hattie jump. Having just located a clean pair of overalls in her bag, she’d shucked out of the oversized wrapper Mirabel had given her without a thought for modesty. It never occurred to her that just because a man was in the room she shouldn’t disrobe.

  Horace and Papa had never minded.

  Hattie blinked at Jake in confusion as he crossed the room in two giant strides and manhandled her back into the wrapper. He pulled the two sides together and yanked the tie at her waist so tight she could barely breathe. Ripping the overalls from her hands, he tossed them across the room. “Hey!” she protested.

  He stared down at her with unsmiling sternness. “You won’t be needing those. Mother has arranged for a fitting with a dressmaker.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she stared up at him. “I don’t want no sonovabitchin’ dresses!”

  “Well, that’s a crying shame, kid, because new dresses are exactly what you’re going to get! How many other girls have you seen running around in boys’ pants?”

  She thrust her chin at a mutinous angle, and he growled, “The girls in Mattawa wear skirts, Hattie Taylor, and I’ll be damned if you’ll embarrass your aunt by strutting around in those sorry pants. And don’t even think about throwing another fit in front of the dressmaker, or I’ll blister your butt so hard, you’ll be eating your dinner off the sideboard for a week!”

  “Jacob, please,” Augusta protested weakly. Really, this was too much. It was one thing for him to pepper his conversation with outrageous language when there was no one to hear except her and Mirabel. She derived a sneaking enjoyment out of it—reminding her as it did of her darling Luke. It was something else entirely, however, to mention . . . well, the unmentionable in front of an impressionable young girl. One did not speak of the anatomy in mixed company. And most certainly not with such vulgarity.

  Hattie didn’t share Augusta’s qualms. Threats of a thrashing were things she understood. Plus, her mama had said to look for silver linings when life gave you black clouds. Jake was her silver lining. In just a few hours, she’d already become accustomed to his flashing grin and teasing ways. This hard-eyed man laying down the law just wasn’t the same, and she’d do almost anything to bring back her new fr
iend. “Okay,” she agreed ungraciously. “I’ll wear the stinkin’ dresses.” She just wanted him to smile at her again.

  He did. “That’s my girl,” he said and grinned. He bent to clamp his hands under Hattie’s arms. Jake lifted her high in the air, planted a swift kiss on her lips, and set her down again. He ran his hand down her wet hair. “I’ll send the dressmaker up,” he said. And left the room.

  Since her mama’s death, kisses were rare occurrences in Hattie’s life. She pressed the unaccustomed warmth of Jake’s into her lips with her fingertips in hopes of making it last a little longer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Augusta watching her and immediately knuckle-scrubbed her mouth. “He better not kiss me again,” she muttered gruffly.

  “Oh, I’m sure he shan’t,” Augusta replied, hiding a smile when her words elicited a flash of disappointment across Hattie’s face. She studied the little girl. “How old are you, child?”

  “Eleven.” Hattie looked around the room and, as she took it in, her jaw sagged. Concerned about her carpetbag, she hadn’t given the room her attention earlier. Now she stared in awe.

  It was large and airy, illuminated by two tall windows with tops curved like spread fans of leaded glass. Ruffled muslin curtains, tied back with green bows, fluttered in the breeze. Sunlight cast dappled shadows through the tree outside, painting patterns across the hardwood floor. Hattie wondered if it was the fresh air blowing in or the bottles of hartshorn and camphor on the dressing table that made the room smell so good. Almost as good as Aunt Augusta.

  In addition to the scents, the dressing table contained an ornate set of silver-backed hair accessories. She studied all the beautiful items atop the dresser, then drifted about the large room, staring at everything, touching nothing. Each item seemed prettier than what caught her eye before, but Hattie’s perusal was merely a stopgap to keep her from grabbing the one thing she really wanted to touch more than anything in the world. The doll. The bed had a high mattress, four posters, and a pale gold satin comforter, piled with tiny pillows of satin and lace. Perched on the top was the doll. Hattie gazed at it hungrily.

  Augusta, watching her, felt a pang for the child’s obvious longing. At the same time, she experienced a little thrill of vindication. Hattie’s language might be coarse, and she’d arrived looking as dusty and unkempt as a vagrant ragamuffin. But her mother’s early training had clearly stayed with her. Hadn’t Augusta told Jacob breeding would tell? Hattie’s awe of the room and her hunger for the doll shone like a beacon from her freshly scrubbed face. Yet she hadn’t so much as touched one item, let alone grabbed indiscriminately as might be expected from a child allowed to run wild and unsupervised the past few years.

  Augusta swooped across the room and swept the doll off its pile of pillows. She extended it to Hattie. “Her name is Lillian.”

  Hattie reached out a cautious hand for the doll, eyeing Augusta warily, as if afraid it would be snatched back if she reached for it. Augusta relinquished it the instant Hattie’s hand closed around the doll’s middle and watched as the little girl promptly bowed her head to give the gift her undivided attention.

  Lillian’s head, hands, and feet were made of China bisque, her painted features delicate. Hattie inspected the way the china portions attached to the sawdust-filled cloth body and the detailed clothing the doll wore. Tipping up its skirts, she examined the fine lawn drawers and full petticoats from an earlier era, then turned the doll upright and patted its clothes back into place, carefully arranging its tiny, high-buttoned boots. She ran her fingers over the doll’s fine blond hair, then reluctantly tried to hand it back to Augusta. “Dolls’re dumb,” she muttered gruffly. Then with innate honesty, she added, “Lillian’s real pretty, though.”

  “I’m so glad you think so,” Augusta replied smoothly, pretending she didn’t see the doll being offered her. “She very much needs someone to take care of her, and I’m afraid I am simply too old. She’s been very lonely on this big old bed all by herself and has quite anxiously awaited your arrival.”

  Hattie promptly clutched Lillian fiercely to her chest, and, hiding a smile, Augusta gently touched the girl’s still-damp hair. Attention absorbed by the doll in her arms, Hattie didn’t notice.

  Mirabel arrived with the dressmaker in tow, and the fitting went much more smoothly than Augusta had dared hope. She wasn’t sure if it was Jacob’s threat of a spanking or Hattie’s enthrallment with Lillian that made the difference, but the little girl kept her squirming to a minimum, and she only uttered her infamous swear word once, when the dressmaker accidentally stuck her with a pin.

  Augusta quelled the dressmaker’s shocked curiosity with a stern look. She wasn’t above a spot of genteel blackmail. Clearly, they needed to work with Hattie before her introduction into society. The era they lived in demanded high moral standards of its young ladies, and Augusta was determined that Hattie take her rightful place in society. Damned if she’d tolerate anything hampering the child before she even had a chance to begin.

  Tomorrow they’d retire to the ranch. For now, Augusta let it be tacitly understood she’d know precisely where to place the blame should tales of Hattie’s verbal indiscretion make the rounds of Mattawa. The retaliation was clear: her patronage would be withdrawn. She only hoped her value as a customer was enough, for she knew well the dressmaker’s love of gossip.

  By the time Augusta noticed Hattie starting to wilt, the child’s thick hair had mostly dried into heavy waves and tight, flyaway ringlets. A fiery nimbus outlined its thick mass when the lowering sun poured through the window. Hattie’s shoulders had developed a droop, her arms hung limp at her sides, and for the first time since Augusta gave her the doll, Lillian wasn’t carefully cradled in Hattie’s arms or clasped to her chest. Instead, the doll dangled from the girl’s hand, swinging gently with the slight sway of Hattie’s body.

  Even as Augusta watched, the child’s eyes slid shut, then blinked open, her head nodding wearily. Clad only in her new ready-made white chemise and drawers, she looked like a vulnerable little soldier as she struggled to stay awake on the slipper chair where they’d bid her stand for her fitting.

  Augusta promptly concluded the arrangements. Hattie had been measured to within an inch of her life, and the adults had pored over the pattern books, discussing fabrics and trim as they went. She saw no need to prolong the session when the child was so obviously exhausted. Helping Hattie down from the chair, she urged her to sit as Mirabel showed the dressmaker out.

  Picking up the silver-backed brush, Augusta pulled it through Hattie’s thick hair. She spent several minutes enjoying the unaccustomed chore, before braiding the girl’s hair into a thick plait that fell to Hattie’s waist. Next, she tucked Hattie into a new batiste nightgown. She offered tooth powder and a brush, and when Hattie returned from performing her ablutions, Augusta had turned back the covers on the bed. She patted the mattress. “Come to bed, child.”

  Yawning, Hattie stumbled across the room. “Am I going to sleep in here?” she asked, then tumbled onto the high mattress without awaiting an answer.

  “Yes, dear. This is your room.” Augusta pulled the covers over Hattie’s shoulders and smoothed an errant tendril of bright hair back into the braid.

  “It’s real pretty.” Hattie yawned again and her eyes drifted closed. Then her eyes flew open and she jerked up onto one elbow. “Where’s Lillian?” As quickly as the question was posed, the child subsided. “Oh. She’s here.” She pulled the doll from under the covers and tucked it into the crook of her arm. “Thanks, Aunt Augusta.” Her fan of lowered lashes flickered against her pale cheeks, and she sleepily raised a hand to rub at her nose. “For the room,” she murmured around a yawn, “’n’ for Lillian.”

  Augusta smiled down at the young girl in the bed. She had a feeling she was very much going to enjoy having Hattie Taylor live with her. Very much indeed. “You’re welcome, dear. Good night.”

 
There was no answer. Hattie was already sound asleep.

  4

  Doc Fielding’s house

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 5, 1899

  Jake sat in the Fielding parlor and wondered how much longer Jane-Ellen would make him wait. He shifted in restless irritation. His dad had taught him to work hard from the time Jake was knee-high to a grasshopper, so idleness wasn’t his long suit.

  Up until moments ago, he’d at least had Jane-Ellen’s father to keep him company. Doc was a blunt-spoken, down-to-earth man, and Jake liked him. They’d enjoyed a comfortable conversation before the Fieldings’ housekeeper stuck her head in the room to inform the doctor his services were needed on a ranch outside of town. Doc had poured Jake a stiff shot of whiskey, given him a conspiratorial wink, assured him Jane-Ellen wouldn’t be very much longer, and excused himself.

  Gazing into his whiskey, Jake absently noted it was the same color as Hattie’s eyes. The thought made him smile. For pure entertainment value, thinking about the newest member of the Murdock household beat hell out of checking his timepiece every two minutes, impatiently awaiting Jane-Ellen’s appearance. In the eight weeks since her arrival, Hattie had made her presence felt in every corner of the house. Not a small accomplishment, considering children were supposed to be seen but not heard.

  It was quickly evident no one had bothered to inform Hattie that silence was golden. She talked all the time. Her curiosity was boundless and she had questions about every aspect of the new life she’d been thrust into. Jake had overheard Mirabel just the other day, discussing Hattie with his mother.

  “I have never,” Mirabel grumbled, “heard a body use the word ‘why’ so often! Why is it so green here, when it wasn’t in Nevada? Why do I do something that way—why not do it this way instead? Heavens, she even wanted to know why the crocheted pieces on chairs’ headrests and arms are called tidies. Who but her would think to ask?”