A shrill whistle signaled the departure of an outbound freight train, relieved of its load and ready for the return trip to Sacramento City. Spencer checked his pocket watch. Right on time, just the way he liked it.
He crossed the platform and went in search of his freight traffic manager, notebook in hand. The sooner he got the statistics on the latest shipments from Peter, the sooner he could update his records and find out how the station was doing.
Processing the cargo quickly and keeping their customers happy would improve their chances of gaining more business and ensure that he could keep his position as long as possible. He’d known ever since taking the newly created Shingle Springs stationmaster position the summer before that the Transcontinental Route to the north would bring about the end of his company’s monopoly, which was why he had a plan that didn’t depend on the railroad.
He located Peter talking with one of his workers. He finished the conversation and ambled over. “Come for the numbers, have you?”
“Are they any good?”
Peter consulted a sheaf of papers. “You’ll be happy with them. But not as happy as when the Sutro Tunnel Act passes. Should be soon from what I hear.”
Handling the many supply shipments needed to construct the six-mile tunnel connecting Nevada’s Comstock’s silver mines would give them plenty of work—for the time being. “Let’s hope we get a fair amount of the business before it’s siphoned off by the CP.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy. They haven’t even reached the summit yet. It’ll take some doing to blast through all that rock. We got us a few good years before our dreams of being rich railroaders die.”
Peter didn’t want to accept the bitter truth. Since Congress had granted the Central Pacific the right to lay track east of California, it wouldn’t be long before they reached Reno. Word was the CP aimed to make it to Cisco high in the Sierras by year’s end and bore tunnels in the mountain passes through the winter. When that happened and the CP met up with the Union Pacific, the Placerville & Sacramento Valley Railroad, now enjoying its heyday, would become a sleepy passenger line.
Unlike his father, who’d counted on selling cattle to the army indefinitely, despite the fact that the war wouldn’t last forever, Spencer had a contingency plan. That’s why he’d turned down the offer of a company house in town and invested in a place of his own instead. Some thought him crazy, but once his bull arrived and he could begin building a herd of cattle—
“Spence?”
“Yes?” What had he missed?
“I asked if you wanted to take a break and see what kind of pie Miss Minnie fixed today. Based on the mouth-watering smells coming from the café, I’m guessing it’s peach.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I have too much to do.”
“When are you going to relax and have some fun, Cap’n? You can spare ten minutes, can’t ya?”
Spencer fought the urge to grimace. He never knew whether the nickname had been bestowed on him out of respect or if his workers were poking fun at him. Sure, he checked up on the various departments, but he trusted his men. He just wanted to assure himself things were running smoothly. His father had spent his time holed up in his office oblivious to his ranch manager’s shenanigans, and look where it had gotten him. He’d come close to losing everything.
“Take a whiff. If that hint of cinnamon in the air doesn’t win you over, I don’t know what will. Then again, perhaps you’re saving your appetite for Mrs. Carter’s latest culinary catastrophe.” Peter gave Spencer a playful punch in the arm.
“She’s done her best.” The well-intentioned widow had ruined a perfectly good pot roast last night and made chicken as dry and tasteless as paper the night before that.
“Polly tells me Tess knows her way around a kitchen, so your troubles could be over.”
“Perhaps.” If the food on his table that evening wasn’t scorched beyond recognition and he could swallow it without gulping water after each bite, he’d be happy.
“How about joining me, then? That way you know you won’t starve.”
Peter had a point. The simple dinner of bread and cheese Spencer had eaten at his desk left much to be desired. Supper was hours away, after all. This would give him an opportunity to show his men he wasn’t as regimented as they seemed to think. “I’ll drop this off—” he held up his notebook “—let Drake know where to find me and meet you there.”
Fifteen minutes later Spencer chewed his last bite of pie, savoring the sweetness of the peach filling. “This was a good idea.”
“At least you won’t waste away if Tess’s cooking doesn’t pan out.” Peter grinned at his pun. “And speaking of Tess, what do you think of her?”
“It’s too soon to tell.”
“She’s tall. At least as tall as you, isn’t she?”
Not quite, if his estimate was correct. “It’s the hat.”
Peter chuckled. “Quite something, isn’t it? She could provide shade for half the town under that thing. Although her taste in bonnets might be questionable, she’s easy on the eyes. Or didn’t you notice?”
He’d noticed all right. Because of her, he’d had a hard time concentrating ever since he returned from running her to the ranch. Memories of her captivating smile kept resurfacing. “My mind was on the interview.”
“Do you think you’ll hire her?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I offered to give her a one-week trial period, but she countered, claiming she could convince me of her suitability in a day. I accepted her challenge.” Spencer stood, and Peter followed suit.
“Polly said she’s got pluck.”
She did indeed. Would her plucky ways keep his headstrong son in line? Or would she resort to mollycoddling to get Luke’s cooperation, as several of the church women had? One stick of candy to win him over initially couldn’t hurt, but a lack of consistent discipline could ruin him.
Since his son was almost guaranteed to act out at supper, he’d have Miss Grimsby handle the situation. If she didn’t exert a firm hand, he’d have no choice but to give her a day’s wages and put her on a train back to Sacramento City. He hoped it didn’t come to that.
* * *
Tess surveyed the parlor. Mrs. Abbott had certainly loved red. At least she’d chosen burgundy furnishings rather than the cherry red on the house itself. The plush chairs and settee in the rich color coordinated with the blue flowers sprinkled amid sprays of wine-colored roses on the wallpaper’s white background. Some slate-blue accents would bring out the secondary color and add a soothing element. Curtains, pillows and a rug, too.
She could imagine Mr. Abbott in the wingback armchair by the fireplace, a child on each knee. A sewing basket sat on the table beside the settee. His wife’s favorite place to sit had likely been the end of it nearest him. The picture of domestic bliss.
A wistful sigh escaped, and Tess chided herself. Giving way to the longing for a family of her own would do no good. She mustn’t fuel futile dreams. How many times had Mr. Grimsby told her she’d best prepare for a lifetime of service?
His words uttered on her tenth birthday came back as sharp and piercing as ever. No man will look twice at you, Tess. You’re going to tower over most of them. And those who are tall won’t be interested in a woman who can look them in the eye. A man wants to feel superior in all respects.